


Seven Year Itch

by sashach



Series: Evanstan by Anie [7]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF
Genre: English translation, I don't know what else to tag without giving away too much, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, let me know if something bugs you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashach/pseuds/sashach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows what’s happening between him and Chris. So does Chris. They’re going through a god damn relationship crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Year Itch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anie/gifts).
  * A translation of [Evanstan短篇合集](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884074) by [Anie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anie/pseuds/Anie). 



> This translation is not proofread, any mistakes are my own, although as a non-native English speaker, I think I tried my best. If you spot any errors, please do let me know.

Chris doesn’t know if Sebastian has read any of Por Jorge Luis Borges’ poems, just like he doesn’t know where Sebastian is tonight.

It’s already two in the morning when Sebastian comes home. The hallway is pitch dark. He’s been smiling too much tonight, the muscles of his face are stiff and sore, he rubs his face to ease the tiredness.

The key connects with the key hole, and clicks with a turn, like clockwork. The sound is unusually abrupt in the quiet night.

Gently, Sebastian pushes the door open and pockets the key. It’s dark in the apartment; the lights are out. He fumbles to take off his shoes and hangs his casual suit jacket on the rack, it reeks of the smell cigarette smoke and alcohol from the party; Sebastian frowns with discomfort. He considers for a moment, takes down the jacket and drapes it over his arm. He’s going to throw it into the laundry hamper for dry-cleaning.

“Where have you been?” Sebastian is walking past the living room when he suddenly hears a voice coming from the couch.

It startles him. From the dim light penetrating through the curtains, he sees Chris sitting on the couch. The tv isn’t on, he isn’t lying on the couch with his laptop on his thighs as he usually does, his cell phone isn’t there; he hasn’t even turned on the lights. Chris is just there, on the couch, his voice a little raspy.

“Sebastian,” Chris asks again when he doesn’t get a reply from him. “Where’ve you been?”

He must be down with a cold; his voice sounds like gravel. Sebastian knows every little detail of Chris, including that raspy voice that’s the herald of a cold or a fever. He stops at his steps, the jacket slipping a little from his arm, and Sebastian holds it in his hand instead.

“You’re still up?” asks Sebastian. He tries to sound as gentle as possible, but the alcohol he’s consumed the entire evening is making his brain throb, he feels like he’s sinking into the ground. He probably has had too much rum, the acrid burning sensation has only begun to travel from his stomach to his limbs and veins after the party.

“I was waiting for you,” Chris stands up, looking as if he wants to follow him, but stops when he goes around the couch, settling a hand on it. “You didn’t pick up my calls.”

Sebastian takes out his cell phone from his pocket. There are unanswered calls; all fifteen of them from the same person. The man who’s standing there with his hand on the arm of the couch, the man who’s been Sebastian’s partner of seven years, whom he’s openly admitted. Chris Evans.

Sebastian wants to explain _I went to your brother’s friend birthday party. You know him, too; we had dinner with him last month_. But the alcohol he’s had makes him too exhausted to handle the questions that sound too sharp to his ears. He threads a hand through his gelled hair, scrunching it loose and fluffy. He opens the bathroom door and deposits his suit jacket into the laundry basket.

Chris has thrown his shirt into the laundry basket again. Sebastian notices the material in the basket, he’s already told Chris countless times that shirt can’t be dry cleaned.

_Whatever._

Sebastian rolls his eyes and walks to the bedroom door. With one hand on the door knob, he says, “Chris, I’m not obliged to pick up all your calls.”

Chris seems to have something else to say, but Sebastian doesn’t give him the chance. Chris has barely called out his name when Sebastian closes the door, leaving his partner outside the bedroom.

This is fucking terrible. Be it himself or Chris.

When Sebastian heads to the bathroom with a set of fresh clothes, he stands at the bedroom door noiselessly, listening to the motion outside. Chris is standing out there. They’re both quiet; the apartment is filled with the gloominess of the night, inside and outside. But Sebastian is positive Chris is standing right outside the door. After all these years he can even tell what flavor Chris wants for his steak according to the frequency of his blinking eyes.

Sebastian goes to the bathroom. The hot water wets his exhausted body, steam begins to build up in the bathroom, spreading over the mirror like campfire smoke in the wilderness that’s been blown away by the wind.

He knows what’s happening between him and Chris. So does Chris. They’re going through a god damn relationship crisis.

There hasn’t been another person, nor has there been a big fight; nothing. They’re still the couple under the spotlight, envied and blessed; the couple whose careers are surprisingly unaffected with them going public. It’s a relationship miracle in Hollywood.

He still recalls Chris laughing heartily at the headlines on the papers, head thrown back. That particular newspaper had specifically enlarged and bolded the word “miracle”, with a picture of them attending a red carpet event beneath it.

“This is like some wanted circular. To be apprehended immediately.” Chris slapped the newspaper on the table; the papers whacks the table with a distinct bang. He held Sebastian’s hand and said, “Fuck Hollywood.”

They’ve thought they would continue to live a life like that: warm embraces in the mornings, morning kisses, the beep of the microwave, endless text messages to each other, nonstop conversations, head over heels with each other every single day.

But it’s been too long. The time they’ve spent with each other is longer than any of their previous relationships. They couldn’t pinpoint when exactly the changes happened; it could have been a small detail, a tiny conflict.

And they started to fight over the smallest things, such as, which movie to pick, what to wear for events, even the amount of salad dressing could be an issue. It was beyond their anticipation. This isn’t an adjustment period, they’ve long passed that.

It’s just one day, out of a sudden, they don’t want to compromise anymore. Like two dolphins in the depths of the ocean, they just couldn’t hear each other because of an unexpected change in hertz, and they couldn’t breathe. The suffocating feeling, along with their anxiety for each other, escalated to fear. They are helpless, yet they can’t communicate with each other.

Or maybe the past seven years are long enough for the rose to grow new thorns, for the porcupine to put on its armor back on.

And so it is. Fucking relationship crisis. They keep everything to themselves, strained and suffering.

What should we do? Nobody told them how. They don't want their families to worry about them, their publicists have only asked them to keep the facade of a lovey-dovey couple in public, and their friends, Jesus, their friends are surprised they’ve actually held up for so many years.

They need to find a solution themselves. The crisis has persisted longer than they’ve expected. In comparison to their initial bewilderment and indifference to each other when it first happened, they’ve made quite a lot of improvement.

They need a little something. Maybe a gust of strong wind to blow away the thick layer of dark clouds that’s obscuring the sun, so that it would once again shine upon them.

A little what? Sebastian can’t point his finger on it. He turns off the tap, wipes off the droplets rolling down his body with a towel, slightly damped from the steaming vapor. His eyes are tired and the fine film of mist on the mirror blurs his sight; nothing seems real.

Wrapped in a big towel, he leaves the bathroom. The moment he turns the door knob, he realizes he hasn’t turned off the AC in the bedroom. He’s felt too warm just now, the alcohol in his body bursting into an enormous ball of heat; hot and dry, and he has turned the AC to the lowest temperature.

Sebastian pulls the towel tighter around him, the soft texture rubbing against his skin; he should have brought his bathrobe into the bathroom just now.

When Sebastian opens the door entirely, the temperature isn’t as cold as he thinks. Chris has been in the bedroom, he realizes. The remote control has been moved from the bed to the desk, placed on his tall stack of books.

Sebastian sighs. He climbs into bed and wraps the duvet tight around him as if urging himself to sleep. He and Chris try their utmost to maintain their relationship, careful and deliberate with every gesture and every move. They’ve become more and more familiar with each other after years of being together; excessive contact will only bring about a reflexive protective shell.

Sebastian contemplates; his brain a mess. The other side of the bed remains the same, flat and smooth because no one comes over to lie down on it. He’s used to waiting.

Just when Sebastian has taken another look at the time on the alarm clock, the door opens slowly. The sound of footsteps is deliberately soft yet heavy; Sebastian’s heart sinks with every step. He’s being enveloped in an embrace from behind, the strong arms of the other man wrap around his waist, muscles relaxing immediately.

Sebastian feels Chris’ body temperature is cooler than usual. He touches Chris’ hand tentatively and feels a thin layer of cold sweat.

Sebastian panics a little, he turns around and, under the dim light of the night, looks at Chris’ knitted brows and pursed lips.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian asks as he feels Chris’ forehead. No fever, but the coat of cold sweat remains.

Chris is anxious.

Chris doesn’t know if Sebastian has read any of Por Jorge Luis Borges’ poems, just like he doesn’t know where Sebastian is tonight.

It’s already two in the morning when Sebastian comes home. The hallway is pitch dark. He’s been smiling too much tonight, the muscles of his face are stiff and sore, he rubs his face to ease the tiredness.

The key connects with the key hole, and clicks with a turn, like clockwork. The sound is unusually abrupt in the quiet night.

Gently, Sebastian pushes the door open and pockets the key. It’s dark in the apartment; the lights are out. He fumbles to take off his shoes and hangs his casual suit jacket on the rack, it reeks of the smell cigarette smoke and alcohol from the party; Sebastian frowns with discomfort. He considers for a moment, takes down the jacket and drapes it over his arm. He’s going to throw it into the laundry hamper for dry-cleaning.

“Where have you been?” Sebastian is walking past the living room when he suddenly hears a voice coming from the couch.

It startles him. From the dim light penetrating through the curtains, he sees Chris sitting on the couch. The tv isn’t on, he isn’t lying on the couch with his laptop on his thighs as he usually does, his cell phone isn’t there; he hasn’t even turned on the lights. Chris is just there, on the couch, his voice a little raspy.

“Sebastian,” Chris asks again when he doesn’t get a reply from him. “Where’ve you been?”

He must be down with a cold; his voice sounds like gravel. Sebastian knows every little detail of Chris, including that raspy voice that’s the herald of a cold or a fever. He stops at his steps, the jacket slipping a little from his arm, and Sebastian holds it in his hand instead.

“You’re still up?” asks Sebastian. He tries to sound as gentle as possible, but the alcohol he’s consumed the entire evening is making his brain throb, he feels like he’s sinking into the ground. He probably has had too much rum, the acrid burning sensation has only begun to travel from his stomach to his limbs and veins after the party.

“I was waiting for you,” Chris stands up, looking as if he wants to follow him, but stops when he goes around the couch, settling a hand on it. “You didn’t pick up my calls.”

Sebastian takes out his cell phone from his pocket. There are unanswered calls; all fifteen of them from the same person. The man who’s standing there with his hand on the arm of the couch, the man who’s been Sebastian’s partner of seven years, whom he’s openly admitted. Chris Evans.

Sebastian wants to explain _I went to your brother’s friend birthday party. You know him, too; we had dinner with him last month_. But the alcohol he’s had makes him too exhausted to handle the questions that sound too sharp to his ears. He threads a hand through his gelled hair, scrunching it loose and fluffy. He opens the bathroom door and deposits his suit jacket into the laundry basket.

Chris has thrown his shirt into the laundry basket again. Sebastian notices the material in the basket, he’s already told Chris countless times that shirt can’t be dry cleaned.

_Whatever._

Sebastian rolls his eyes and walks to the bedroom door. With one hand on the door knob, he says, “Chris, I’m not obliged to pick up all your calls.”

Chris seems to have something else to say, but Sebastian doesn’t give him the chance. Chris has barely called out his name when Sebastian closes the door, leaving his partner outside the bedroom.

This is fucking terrible. Be it himself or Chris.

When Sebastian heads to the bathroom with a set of fresh clothes, he stands at the bedroom door noiselessly, listening to the motion outside. Chris is standing out there. They’re both quiet; the apartment is filled with the gloominess of the night, inside and outside. But Sebastian is positive Chris is standing right outside the door. After all these years he can even tell what flavor Chris wants for his steak according to the frequency of his blinking eyes.

Sebastian goes to the bathroom. The hot water wets his exhausted body, steam begins to build up in the bathroom, spreading over the mirror like campfire smoke in the wilderness that’s been blown away by the wind.

He knows what’s happening between him and Chris. So does Chris. They’re going through a god damn relationship crisis.

There hasn’t been another person, nor has there been a big fight; nothing. They’re still the couple under the spotlight, envied and blessed; the couple whose careers are surprisingly unaffected with them going public. It’s a relationship miracle in Hollywood.

He still recalls Chris laughing heartily at the headlines on the papers, head thrown back. That particular newspaper had specifically enlarged and bolded the word “miracle”, with a picture of them attending a red carpet event beneath it.

“This is like some wanted circular. To be apprehended immediately.” Chris slapped the newspaper on the table; the papers whacks the table with a distinct bang. He held Sebastian’s hand and said, “Fuck Hollywood.”

They’ve thought they would continue to live a life like that: warm embraces in the mornings, morning kisses, the beep of the microwave, endless text messages to each other, nonstop conversations, head over heels with each other every single day.

But it’s been too long. The time they’ve spent with each other is longer than any of their previous relationships. They couldn’t pinpoint when exactly the changes happened; it could have been a small detail, a tiny conflict.

And they started to fight over the smallest things, such as, which movie to pick, what to wear for events, even the amount of salad dressing could be an issue. It was beyond their anticipation. This isn’t an adjustment period, they’ve long passed that.

It’s just one day, out of a sudden, they don’t want to compromise anymore. Like two dolphins in the depths of the ocean, they just couldn’t hear each other because of an unexpected change in hertz, and they couldn’t breathe. The suffocating feeling, along with their anxiety for each other, escalated to fear. They are helpless, yet they can’t communicate with each other.

Or maybe the past seven years are long enough for the rose to grow new thorns, for the porcupine to put on its armor back on.

And so it is. Fucking relationship crisis. They keep everything to themselves, strained and suffering.

What should we do? Nobody told them how. They don't want their families to worry about them, their publicists have only asked them to keep the facade of a lovey-dovey couple in public, and their friends, Jesus, their friends are surprised they’ve actually held up for so many years.

They need to find a solution themselves. The crisis has persisted longer than they’ve expected. In comparison to their initial bewilderment and indifference to each other when it first happened, they’ve made quite a lot of improvement.

They need a little something. Maybe a gust of strong wind to blow away the thick layer of dark clouds that’s obscuring the sun, so that it would once again shine upon them.

A little what? Sebastian can’t point his finger on it. He turns off the tap, wipes off the droplets rolling down his body with a towel, slightly damped from the steaming vapor. His eyes are tired and the fine film of mist on the mirror blurs his sight; nothing seems real.

Wrapped in a big towel, he leaves the bathroom. The moment he turns the door knob, he realizes he hasn’t turned off the AC in the bedroom. He’s felt too warm just now, the alcohol in his body bursting into an enormous ball of heat; hot and dry, and he has turned the AC to the lowest temperature.

Sebastian pulls the towel tighter around him, the soft texture rubbing against his skin; he should have brought his bathrobe into the bathroom just now.

When Sebastian opens the door entirely, the temperature isn’t as cold as he thinks. Chris has been in the bedroom, he realizes. The remote control has been moved from the bed to the desk, placed on his tall stack of books.

Sebastian sighs. He climbs into bed and wraps the duvet tight around him as if urging himself to sleep. He and Chris try their utmost to maintain their relationship, careful and deliberate with every gesture and every move. They’ve become more and more familiar with each other after years of being together; excessive contact will only bring about a reflexive protective shell.

Sebastian contemplates; his brain a mess. The other side of the bed remains the same, flat and smooth because no one comes over to lie down on it. He’s used to waiting.

Just when Sebastian has taken another look at the time on the alarm clock, the door opens slowly. The sound of footsteps is deliberately soft yet heavy; Sebastian’s heart sinks with every step. He’s being enveloped in an embrace from behind, the strong arms of the other man wrap around his waist, muscles relaxing immediately.

Sebastian feels Chris’ body temperature is cooler than usual. He touches Chris’ hand tentatively and feels a thin layer of cold sweat.

Sebastian panics a little, he turns around and, under the dim light of the night, looks at Chris’ knitted brows and pursed lips.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian asks as he feels Chris’ forehead. No fever, but the coat of cold sweat remains.

Chris is anxious.

This unexpected development dissolves every ounce of exhaustion within Sebastian. He moves forward to hold Chris tightly, gently patting his back to calm him down.

“I’m worried about you,” Chris’ voice is a little rough, he buries his face in Sebastian’s shoulder and breathes deeply. The smell of alcohol has been washed away, replaced by the scent of familiar shower gel; fresh and clean. Chris is trembling, heart beating fast.

“That should be my line,” replies Sebastian softly. He hugs Chris a little tighter, like a drowning man grabbing on to the last float for survival. “I went to the birthday party for Scott’s friend. He sent us the invitation, remember? But you didn’t want to go, so I went alone.”

Chris nods, putting his arm around Sebastian’s waist and finds comfort in his warmth, his scent, and his stable breathing.

“Thank goodness you didn’t go,” a smile tugs at the corner of Sebastian’s lips. He notices Chris is gradually calming down, and he continues. “It was too bright, too much cigarette smoke, too much alcohol, you would have resented it if you go.”

“Hmm,” Chris nudges his nose against Sebastian’s shoulder, spilling warm breaths onto the shallow part of his shoulder. The strength of Chris embrace is going slack.

“It was too noisy there,” Sebastian disentangles himself slightly; the crease between Chris’ brow is unknitting. Sebastian thinks for a bit and says, “I turned the volume of my cell phone to the fullest, but it was too soft over the loud noise. I’m sorry I didn’t see your messages.” Very gently, he inches forward and nibbles Chris’ lower lip. Chris likes intimacy such as this, so does Sebastian.

And naturally, it’s intensified into a long, sweet kiss.

Sebastian knows Chris has just taken his anti-anxiety pills as he tastes the residue of the bitterness at the tip of his tongue. It’s the same as usual, yet different because after Chris has fallen asleep, spooning Sebastian from behind, the latter escapes from the hug and rolls over to the other side of the bed.

Sebastian doesn’t hate sleeping in each other’s embrace; they’ve been doing the same thing almost every night for the last few years. But sometimes when life happens and the mood isn’t right, the gesture feels odd, and the temperature of two bodies is far too warm.

 

****

 

Sebastian wakes up really early the next morning. His hand is entwined with Chris’, the latter is deep in slumber under the influence of his medication. The morning sun slips through the curtains, tumbles down the window ledge, wrapping itself around Chris; a paper-cut silhouette.

They’ve not had a morning kiss for quite some time, not even a warm cuddle.

“Good morning,” Sebastian mouths at Chris and gets out of bed soundlessly. Chris is vulnerable when he’s asleep. Long lashes fan out, blanketing the dark circles under his eyes that have resulted from exhaustion. His hair, free of hair products, is messy from rubbing against the pillow.

Sebastian recalls one occasion before he and Chris have gotten together. There was a building behind the soundstage and it had a fire escape leading all the way to a balcony. On the exterior of the building was a flight of wooden stairs; wooden planks secured by a metal frame. The old stairs would creak when someone walked on it.

Chris was the one who’d found the place. He was always wandering around the premises while waiting for his scene; the director always said he should provide him with a GPS so that they would know where the hell the leading man was when they needed him.

He took Sebastian to that old wooden stairs. As he walked up the steps, Sebastian was a little daunted of the old wooden planks, he kept stepping on the wobbling ones that threatened to break anytime, and he was carrying a heavy plastic bag of beers. Already unstable, he couldn’t help but grip on tightly to the metal banister, feeling the marks engraved by the elements rubbing against his palms.

Then Chris came down, grinning widely as if that was a ridiculous thing. He took the plastic bag from Sebastian, held his hand and took him up the steps.

“Come on,” said Chris, his tone enthusiastic. “If the staff found out I took you here for beer, they’d kill me.” With an exaggerated gesture, he mimicked being shot by a sniper and added a “bang” for sound effect. The cans in the plastic clanked against one and other, and Sebastian looked at the bag with concern; he reckoned the foam would spill when they pulled the tab afterward.

They finally made it to the balcony, the evening air was cool and the breeze was gentle. Chris took out the beer one by one and threw one at Sebastian. After a slight hesitation, Sebastian sat down next to him, shoulder rubbing against shoulder. They pulled the tabs, the rush of carbon dioxide made a soft pop.

They chatted, Sebastian listened to Chris talking about the stupid things he’d done when he was a kid. He had taken away East’s feeding bowl and the bulldog had chased him from the living room to the backyard, eventually, both boy and dog got tired, and lied on the grass, their bodies stained with dirt. In the end, Chris’ mother, Lisa, had demanded that Chris washed his own clothes and gave East a bath.

Sebastian smirked with disregard and said that wasn’t a big deal, I was called chubby European for an entire semester.

“People really called you that?” Chris laughed, taking a mouthful of beer. He took Sebastian’s cell phone when he showed him pictures of himself when he was a kid. Sebastian had been a soft and fair kid, and Chris choked at the sight, coughing. He returned Sebastian his phone, patted his chest and said, “You were really cute.”

Embarrassed, Sebastian put his phone back in his pocket and drunk a few mouthfuls of beer to conceal his cheeks that flushed red when Chris said he was cute. But hot steam was rising from the tips of his ears. Chris was sitting next to him, his little gestures and his breaths as he spoke, showered upon Sebastian’s soul like boiling water.

They clanked their beers, laughed unreservedly, arms around each other intimately, like best friends. But deep in their hearts, they would rather be lovers.

It was an unspoken thought, heaped high like beer foam. Every second on the set was valuable. The clanking sound of beer cans was grating, painful like the thorn in their hearts scraping against their own souls.

Chris couldn’t hold his alcohol, even beer could get him drunk. Sebastian seemed to be affected by him and insisted on piling up the empty cans into a tall tower. Using the unopened beers as base, they added one empty can after another, and when the last one was set down, Sebastian snapped his fingers smugly.

Chris quirked his brow and poked at the middle section with his finger, Sebastian could barely stop him, and the perfect tower of beer cans came tumbling down, scattering all over the place.

Sebastian was infuriated, how dare Chris disrespect the result of his labor? A lesson must be taught. Sebastian rolled up his sleeves, licked his lips, and pressed Chris down on the balcony with beer cans rolling everywhere.

Sebastian smelled nice, a fragrance that was mingled with the malty flavor of beer, and his lips were wet and shiny from being licked. Chris was overwhelmed; he couldn’t hear a thing except for Sebastian’s breaths.

He wanted to kiss Sebastian, he’d wanted to do that for a very long time.

But he couldn’t. Before things between them became more definite, they would always be good co-workers, best friends who slipped out in the middle of the night for drinks at most.

Sebastian looked at Chris, dumbfounded. Chris’ blue eyes were staring back at him, mellow and drunk; waves rippling across the deep ocean.

They gazed at each other for quite some time until Chris felt a slightly crushed beer can from underneath him and smiled, “My bad. Now get up, my back’s gonna break.”

Sebastian clapped his hands and stood up as if nothing had happened and resumed his initial sitting position. Chris smoothed his shirt, the section that had rubbed against the floor slightly crumpled. He tapped his beer can against Sebastian’s a little too strongly, spilling the contents on Sebastian.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I hope you’re gonna wash my shirt for me.”

“Trust me, I can even give you a shower,” Chris nodded seriously, but he couldn’t restrain himself and made the joke.

“Get lost,” Sebastian shove Chris gently, the latter slumped cooperatively. “I’m not East.”

They’d probably gotten quite drunk in the end, it was Chris who carried the plastic bag, now filled with empty beer cans, when they walked down the stairs. His other hand held Sebastian’s wrist firmly, the heat from his fingertips scorching Sebastian’s pulse.

It could be that Chris had promised Sebastian he would wash that beer spilled shirt for him, they took off their clothes, enveloped in each other’s arms tightly, and they kissed; intoxication was their excuse. The mattress of the hotel was too soft, Sebastian bore the weight of Chris’ poundings as if he was being sucked into an enormous whirlpool. He gripped firmly onto Chris’ arms on his sides, panting with effort as tears welled up in his eyes. His soul was finally encompassed by boiling water, even the steaming vapor was a desperate heat. 

“Look at me,” Chris entwined his fingers with Sebastian’s, the latter’s knuckles sunk into the mattress, red from rubbing against it.

And Sebastian opened his eyes, gazing at Chris through a layer of mist. Tears flowed from the corners of his eyes, down the crinkles, into his hair. He felt the sensation of pain, yet he was numbed from the alcohol. And Chris was a god bearing a torch of fire.

“Does it hurt?” Chris kissed the corner of Sebastian’s lips, chasing away the teeth biting down Sebastian’s lips with the tip of his tongue. He gazed at Sebastian’s eyes when the tears fell uncontrollably, and slowed down his pace as he asked.

Sebastian hooked his legs around Chris’ waist, he licked his lips and shook his head, his eyes round and wet.

“It’s just…” Sebastian panted brokenly as Chris moved. “Hurry up.”

When it was over, Chris held Sebastian for a long time, wrapping Sebastian’s shaking form entirely in his embrace. His shoulders were wider than Sebastian’s, the latter always had the misconception he was blanketed by Chris whenever they hugged.

Sebastian swore Chris was always more sensitive than he was, sometimes he felt he should take care of Chris more, but the fact was Chris had always been infinitely generous and patient with him.

 _What can I offer you?_ Chris wondered. _I only have lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs._

Or I can offer you the vastest piece of land in my heart, and you, only you alone, are allowed to construct a gigantic castle and build a manor.

They were still assessing each other at the time. Two men, in their early thirties, naively sweet because of their secret crush for each other.

 

****

 

Sebastian is making scrambled eggs, he adds the leftovers in the fridge and wraps them into one big roll. He slices it into halves and put them on a plate.

He leaves the apartment without waiting for Chris to wake up. He has an audition and he has to be there early to get ready.

The truth is, he wants to have breakfast with Chris, but their initial silent treatment toward each other at the earlier stage of the crisis has made things awkward between them now. He’s used to thinking love was uncomplicated; they would talk about everything and enjoy animated conversations. But now they have nothing to talk about, yet their love for each other is still there.

And so they don’t understand if the silence is pushing their love to the guillotine, or elevating it to another level. Before they can make sense of that, all they can do now is run away from the problem, away from all the causes of the problem.

Age has nothing much to do with dealing with problems; life experience plays a bigger part. Sebastian thinks even if he and Chris only begin to encounter their relationship crisis when they’re seventy or eighty years old, they would still be as helpless as they are now.

But by that time they would be too old to give each other the silent treatment or have a fight. A little crisis has nothing on an impenetrable fortress built throughout decades of love.

It’s not like that at the moment.

 

****

 

Sebastian studies the script the director has given him; the character isn’t a difficult one, it’s easy for him to immerse himself in that character during the audition. The weather today isn’t very agreeable, clouds are rolling and surging, and the air is muggy. Sebastian has his assistant drops him at a Starbucks.

Sebastian likes Starbucks, he’s accumulated an assortment of signature mugs at home, and several membership cards and discount cards. His head still hurts from the hangover, as though there’re fine needles pricking and poking at his brain. He finds a quiet corner and sits down to read a magazine, still wearing his baseball cap.

The iced coffee clears his head immensely, but the headache is unrelenting. He hears two girls sitting at a table in the back talking about movies, Chris’ popular and amazing movies.

Chris is working both behind and in front of the camera now, though he’s basically working behind the scenes. He’s more cautious at picking his movies, working overtime for nights when he has editing to do. At the premieres, he’s always impeccably dressed and high-spirited; the up and coming director, when in fact after editing, he would show the finished product to Sebastian with apprehension, asking for his opinions incessantly.

“It’s really good,” said Sebastian after he’d finished watching the movie. “You’ve nothing to worry about, I mean it.”

But Chris felt it still wasn’t good enough, and the thought only gave him more pressure. Until he stepped onto the red carpet.

Sebastian always walks the red carpet with Chris. They would hold hands under the spotlights, smiling at the media and the cameras. Chris would get anxious when he’s in a large crowd.

“I’m here,” aware of the changes in Chris’ emotions, Sebastian would squeeze Chris’ hand, comforting him with gentle words.

They are each other’s support and comfort. Chris would share with Sebastian the ropes of answering interview questions, and he would sometimes help Sebastian with the difficult ones if they’re doing an interview together.

People are willing to spend their money to watch Chris’ indie movies because Chris always includes one solitary sentence at the end of the credits without preamble. It’s not the name of the director or the producer, or any other staff; it’s just one simple line: Chris Evans & Sebastian Stan.

People are in awe of such a frank and open display of affection and, most of the time, they would remain seated, fully aware there isn’t any post-credit scene. They’ve stayed until the end just to see their names side by side.

 

****

 

He orders a sandwich and feels his stomach comforted by the texture of the fluffy bread and the fragrance of cheese and ham. The sandwich from this Starbucks is slightly better than the one near Sebastian’s apartment. No, more than slightly better.

He suddenly thinks of Chris. He wonders if Chris has had his breakfast; Chris likes this sandwich, too. He wants to know how happy would Chris be to have a delicious sandwich like this one.

 _I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet. Maybe I can bring you one._ Sebastian takes out his cell phone and calls Chris’ number, sipping his coffee while the phone rings.

The call is picked up almost immediately; Sebastian hasn’t even swallowed his coffee. Chris’ voice doesn’t sound like he’s getting better, it’s husky with a note of weariness, traveling to Sebastian’s ear through the signal waves.

“Hi, Seb,” Chris says with a drawl, thick like the sticky date cake Sebastian had the other time.

Sebastian doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t know what to say. It sounds like he’s woken up Chris. Should he tell Chris he’s calling because he’s just had a sandwich that’s delicious beyond words?

Chris seems to be waiting for him to speak, but the only sounds between them are their breaths.

“Erm,” Sebastian speaks. “Are you still sleeping?”

 _No, that’s too stupid._ Sebastian regrets saying that the moment the words slip out of his lips. Quickly, before Chris laughs, he adds, “I mean, are you up?”

“I’m changing,” then the sound of clothes rustling in the background. “How’s everything?”

“Not bad… not too bad,” Sebastian gives a vague reply. He stares at the sandwich in the plate. “Go have your breakfast.”

“Okay,” says Chris, nodding his head. He seemed to notice the hoarseness of his own voice. He coughs dryly, and with hesitance, asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” says Sebastian. The girls sitting in the back are leaving. He lowers his voice and says his goodbye hurriedly.

 

****

 

Sebastian finishes his sandwich. As he passes the display counter, he considers a while and goes to the register and says, “One sandwich to go, please.”

 

****

 

Chris isn’t home when Sebastian returns. A set of Chris casual attire is missing from the wardrobe, the clothes Sebastian has thrown into the laundry hamper the previous night are also gone; Chris must have taken them to the dry cleaner.

Sebastian puts the sandwich in the fridge. He has an event to attend later and he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be there.

His assistant calls him at the designated time to remind him to get ready for the event. After changing his outfit, Sebastian writes on a post-it: _There’s a sandwich in the fridge_ , and sticks it on the fridge with a magnet. When he walks to the door, he feels he should add something else to his message, so he turns back, takes down the post-it and adds, in sloppy handwriting: _it’s super delicious_ , before sticking it back on the fridge with satisfaction.

 

****

 

He’s so hungry. Sebastian spends the entire afternoon at the event; there’s also an interview afterward. The soft leather couch does nothing to resolve his hunger. The organizer has a tight schedule and he’s only managed to drink some water before the event starts, and take three mouthfuls of bread during the break in between the segments.

He answers questions from the journalists; the sound of his microphone coming out through the sound systems makes him lightheaded. Sebastian wants to go home, the couch at home is way better than the leather chair he’s sitting on presently.

Chris should be home by now. Sebastian notices the behind the scenes pictures from Chris’ magazine shoot as he scrolls through the news feed on his phone.

The weather today is indeed disagreeable. Rain starts to patter down when Sebastian finally leaves the event. His assistant bites into a cold burger in the car as he hands one to Sebastian.

“Thanks, you should eat more,” Sebastian smiles gratefully and returns the burger to his assistant. “I’ll eat when I get home.”

He’s not sure if Chris has read the message on the fridge and ate the sandwich. If he didn’t, it’d be Sebastian’s dinner, even though he’d be disappointed if Chris didn’t have the sandwich he’s brought home especially for him.

When Sebastian opens the door to the apartment, he’s greeted by the smell of pizza.

He sees a pizza box on the dining table; it’s from his favorite pizza joint. Chris walks out from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” surprised, Sebastian opens the box, releasing the rest of the aroma that’s trapped in the box.

“I just feel like having some for no reason,” Chris blinks, as if stressing he hasn’t bought it especially for Sebastian, it’s on the dining table because Chris wants pizza for dinner. But he doesn’t say anything else after that remark; what’s the point of lying then?

The choice of pizza joint, the flavor of the pizza, even the crust, and the toppings are chosen according to Sebastian’s preference. It _is_ for Sebastian.

And just a few days ago, while they were watching tv, Sebastian has mentioned that he’s not had that pizza for quite a while. And voila, Chris has ordered it.

A simple logic that’s easy to understand.

Lying to conceal the truth would only make things more complicated.

Sebastian goes and washes his hand. The rain outside has escalated; he didn’t have an umbrella with him, and his coat and his hair are wet, drops of water dripping from his hair. When Sebastian is applying washing gel into his hands, Chris follows him into the bathroom. He pulls down a towel from the rack and starts to dry Sebastian’s hair.

Out of habit, Sebastian tries to dodge, but Chris’ touch through the towel is so very tender. He licks his lips, allowing Chris to help him pat dry the droplets on his hair.

“Change before you eat,” reminds Chris as he towels Sebastian’s hair. The rain has washed away the hair gel, damp hair sticks to his forehead limply.

Sebastian raises his eyes to look into the mirror. Chris is standing behind him, the warm light in the bathroom shines on them; a nebulous glow.

They put the pizza box on the coffee table in the living room and turn on the tv. On the screen is a repeat of a football match from a few days ago. Sebastian isn’t interested in football; he’s only gotten familiar with the sport after he’s known Chris. After watching one game with Chris, Sebastian chooses to get his script from the bedroom and read it in the living room, scribbling on it every now and then.

Chris watches Sebastian, noticing how he’s holding the pizza in his left hand, and the pen in his right hand with the script spread opened on his thighs. It’s difficult to do both things at the same time, and watch out for crumbs falling onto the script.

When Sebastian finishes the small piece of pizza and reaches out his hand for another one, Chris taps his hand.

“What?” Sebastian turns to him, confused. Chris wipes Sebastian’s hand with a paper towel, crumples it and throws it into the wastebasket.

“You just continue reading,” Chris quirks his brow. He takes out a piece of pizza from the box and puts it at Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian stumbles a little before taking a bite. When he swallows that, and Chris passes the pizza to his lips, Sebastian finally understands Chris intends to feed him like that so that it’d be easier for him to read the script.

When there’s only one mouthful left, Sebastian takes another bite without looking up and comes in contact with Chris’ fingers unexpectedly. His teeth and the tip of his tongue circle Chris’ fingers holding the pizza; a warm touch.

“Sorry,” Sebastian apologizes. Thank goodness he didn’t bite on too hard or else he would have left his teeth marks on Chris’ fingers. They’re so used to living together it’s difficult to tell they’re going through a tough time in their relationship. The mood is just as natural and easy as the countless days they’ve spent together.

But only they themselves know a wall has been built up between them in their seemingly stable lives, waiting to be broken; but they don’t know how to do that.

Sebastian realizes Chris is coming down with a fever when they go to bed. Chris is already lying under the duvet when Sebastian comes out from the bathroom after showering. Sebastian lifts up one corner of the duvet and slips under it, but Chris doesn’t put his arm around Sebastian’s waist and bring him into his chest; he only puts his hand half-heartedly on Sebastian’s waist.

Feeling odd, Sebastian turns around to look at Chris and finds the latter coughing into his pillow.

“You okay?” Sebastian reaches out his hand to feel Chris’ face; moderately high temperature. He gets up and nudges Chris. “You have a fever.”

“I’m fine,” Chris frowns. His throat feels gravelly, his head is spinning, and when he’s lying down just now, he’s felt as though all his energy has been sucked out of him.

“You need some ibuprofen, Chris,” Sebastian is about to get out of bed to get some from the medicine cabinet when Chris pulls him back using just a little bit of strength.

“I’m fine, really,” Chris opens his eyes and says, “I’m good. I’ll feel better tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah, you said so before,” Sebastian ignores him and get out of bed to get some ibuprofen, then he goes to the kitchen to get some warm water and returns with a thermometer.

Chris has to sit up to take the pills; the bitterness spreads from the tip of his tongue all the way down his throat. The warm water soothes the pain of his sore throat.

“Go back to sleep,” Chris hands the thermometer to Sebastian. “See, it’s not serious.”

“What? You’re disappointed?” Sebastian reads the reading on the thermometer; the temperature isn’t very high, but still within the range of a fever.

Chris inches away when Sebastian moves closer to him, all the way to the edge of the bed; Sebastian snuggles against his chest.

“Why are you moving away from me?” Sebastian sulks. He and Chris have been behaving awkwardly toward each other recently; this is the first time Sebastian asks to be near Chris when they sleep.

“I’ll pass it to you,” sighs Chris ruefully. “Sebastian.”

“It’s tonsillitis, it’s not infectious,” Sebastian envelops Chris and brings them back to the middle of the bed.

“I’ll cough,” Chris nudges Sebastian’s face with the tip of his nose. “What if I wake you up?”

“You won’t,” Sebastian pats Chris’ back, takes back his arm and turns around so that Chris can spoon him from behind. “Go back to sleep, okay? Just close your eyes and shut your mouth.”

Chris sleeps fitfully, muffling his coughs in Sebastian’s neck, pushing down the sounds. Sebastian can feel Chris’ chest on his back, rattling from the coughs.

 

****

 

The next morning when Sebastian wakes up, he feels Chris’ forehead; the temperature has gone down, but it’s still a little hot. Chris is a light sleeper, the light touch from Sebastian wakes him up.

Sebastian has a meeting for a new movie in the morning, he’s to share his thoughts on his character with the director. He gets out of bed, changes his clothes after he’s freshened up, and has a quick breakfast.

Chris is fairly unoccupied lately. He’s getting ready for a new production, revising the script and the storyboard, piling the desk with manuscripts.

They used to give each other a light kiss before they head out for the day, it later became more and more perfunctory, and finally disappeared entirely on their seventh-year crisis. Sebastian takes his script with him, together with a neat compilation of his analysis of his character he’s printed out. Chris is having his breakfast when Sebastian leaves the apartment. He puts a slice of ham between his sandwich and says to Sebastian, “The sandwich you brought back yesterday was delicious.”

Sebastian nods, snaps his fingers smugly and goes out. Chris has just swallowed a mouthful of his sandwich when the door is pushed opened hurriedly.

Surprised, he watches Sebastian runs to their bedroom, then walks over to him with the ibuprofen and puts them on the dining table.

“Don’t forget to take them,” says Sebastian.

Chris feigns an upset expression and pushes the pills aside, Bostonian accent laces his voice, like a honey-drizzled waffle or sweet cheese. He does that when he doesn’t want to do something.

“I’m fully recovered,” says Chris. “You turned back just to tell me this?”

Sebastian remains quiet for a while before he decides to lean down and plants a kiss on Chris’ lips. He says softly, “Don’t forget to take your medication.”

They’ve kissed a lot, but this particular kiss takes them back to their childhood.

 

****

 

Chris goes out after Sebastian has left. He just wants to take a walk and purchase a couple of things.

He walks into a boutique to get some t-shirts. After yesterday’s rain, the morning air is particularly refreshing, there’re still some residual water puddles on the road, even the grass is permeated with the scent of soil and vegetation.

Chris loves taking a walk after the rain; the settling moisture seems to circle around his feet.

His sense of aesthetic is simple and casual; comfort above everything else. It’s like he hardly pays any attention when picking clothes.

Chris tries on a t-shirt. A plain colored one, not unlike the ones he’s accumulated in his wardrobe. The cotton material is soft to touch; comfortable.

There aren’t many people in the boutique, Chris stands before the display of clothes, hesitating for a while. The t-shirt is just too comfy, he wants to get one for Sebastian, too.

“Same color?” Asks the salesperson.

“No,” Chris shakes his head. “A black one and a gray one.”

Sebastian has been busy lately, he doesn’t get home until Chris has had his lunch; he still has a publicity event to attend the next day. Chris passes the t-shirt to Sebastian for him to try on.

“It’s unappealing,” says Sebastian. “When are you going to get something that’s different from the t-shirts in your wardrobe?”

Chris takes his medication under Sebastian’s supervision. They’re still awkward with each other, hardly communicating, when in fact, they both want to get closer to each other, but somehow there’s always a layer of ice separating the sky and the ocean.

Chris feels drowsy when the medication kicks in and dozes off in the couch, yet he refuses to take Sebastian’s advice to sleep in their bedroom. Every time before he starts to direct a new movie, Chris would watch different genres of movies. The story on the tv is still playing; the leading actor and the leading actress are standing by the lake in silence, a drop of rain trickles down a tree leaf, drumming a little ripple on the lake, spreading out as if opening a window.

Chris is tired, the hand supporting his forehead keeps slipping.

The warm afternoon sun penetrates into the room through the sheer curtains, speckles of dust dance on the carpet in the living room.

Sebastian takes the pillow from behind him and puts it on Chris’ chest. Chris frowns and, without arguing, settles his head on the pillow; the snuggly fur rubs against Chris’ beard that he’s grown deliberately. His upper and lower lashes kiss and separate, repeating a cycle, like the leading man who waits foolishly for his love by the lake with a bouquet of roses.

Chris doesn’t finish watching the movie in the end, but Sebastian does, and he’s taken notes for Chris; the techniques and scenes Chris deems important. And when the pillow can’t support Chris’ tiredness, Sebastian pulls him in and let him sleep, leaning against him. When the movie has ended and the entire end-title song has finished, Chris is still fast asleep.

But Sebastian is bored, so he takes his cell phone and scrolls through his Instagram feed, liking several interesting pictures.

He’s still bored. He puts down his phone and looks at Chris’ sleeping face. Chris is an odd paradox; controlling and compliance coexist. He’s controlling in bed and in life, but he’s also patient with Sebastian’s emotions, his tone always gentle.

Sebastian keeps him anchored. Many people, including their friends, agree with that. When anxiety strikes, Chris would curl himself up into a ball, but only Sebastian could make him entangle himself and reach out his arms to him.

Chris takes medications for his anxiety, but the most effective one and the most lasting effect comes from a person called Sebastian Stan.

He remembers Borges, and he wants to share Borges’ deeply affectionate poem with Sebastian.

_What can I hold you with?_

_I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow—the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities._

But he thinks all he has, is the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. He’s given Sebastian his loneliness, his darkness, and his ravenous heart; he’s given him his glorious moments when he’s going places, and his vulnerability when his anxiety strikes. And Sebastian welcomes and accepts everything, and wraps him in a cocoon of warmth.

 

****

 

Sebastian looks at Chris’ sleeping form, feeling drowsiness creeping up on him. He tips his head, arranges himself in the couch and falls asleep. When Chris wakes up, Sebastian notices the lack of weight on his shoulders and realizes he and Chris have slept in each other arms the entire afternoon.

Feeling the crick in his shoulders, Sebastian rotates his shoulders. Chris comes back from the kitchen with two washed apples and gives one to Sebastian, rubbing his shoulders in passing.

“Go away,” Sebastian takes a bite of the apple, the juicy sweetness soothes him. “Your wet hands are all over me.”

Chris raises his brow at the words and extends his hands before Sebastian’s eyes to prove his hands are dry. Sebastian can’t be bothered, and slaps his palm instead. Chris chuckles; he never gets tired of this palm slapping game.

And Sebastian chuckles, too. There’s nothing funny, but the corners of his lips curl up at Chris’ grin, and his eyes curve like the new moon.

What they’re now was how they were years ago, naive and passionate; a sun-filled church with melodious hymn floating in the air.

 

****

 

Although Sebastian has told Chris gazillion time that t-shirt is too plain, too unappealing, but when Chris goes to the gym the next day, he receives a forwarded picture of Sebastian at a charity event on his cell phone. He’s wearing that t-shirt, beaming brightly in the picture with the kids.

 _A family._ The word pops out in Chris’ mind out of a sudden.

He might have an idea how to crush this seventh-year crisis.

 

****

 

A week later, Sebastian attends a comic con. He flies out to that city one day before the event; Chris has departed earlier than him for a site inspection for his new movie. Sebastian grabs himself a cup of coffee and strolls into the convention hall; his timing is perfect. Long lines of fans are already waiting outside the photo booth, at the autograph area, they cheer and scream when they see Sebastian. Waving his hand, he smiles at them, stopping briefly for fans who are trying to take selfies with him. He’s friendly with everyone who likes him.

According to his schedule, he has two sessions of photo op and autograph signing, and a short interview. Comic-con takes it out of him; he’s so exhausted he can barely smile when he gets up to go to the photo booth for the last photo op session.

There are chairs in the booth for Sebastian to sit down and rest while waiting for fans to come in. The next person doesn’t appear for a long time. Sebastian hears the commotion and screaming outside.

 _What’s going on?_ Sebastian leans forward to have a look, but the camera and the dividers are blocking his view; he can only see the fans standing in the line.

“What’s going on out there?” Sebastian asks the staff who’s adjusting the camera. The staff takes a look outside and shrugs.

“I don’t know,” says the staff. “Somebody probably walked by.”

Sebastian nods. The next female fan comes in, looking thrilled, her face flushed with excitement. Her eyes light up the moment she sees Sebastian, but she doesn’t say anything.

Tickets for Sebastian’s photo op have been sold out and sold out again. Too many people want to have a picture with him; the longer he stands there, the more he can’t feel his legs.

Soon, soon. Two more pictures and he can go back to New York.

Sebastian gulps down his water, unlocks his phone to check a message he’s just received. It’s getting late, the con is wrapping up and people are moving toward the exit.

He’s positive he’ll be the last one to leave the convention hall. The message is from his agent; she’s gotten him an audition in New York. Sebastian has yet to type out his thanks when the last fan enters.

“Hi,” Sebastian is too exhausted. He puts on a smile hoping it won’t look too stiff. He pockets his cell phone hurriedly, his eyes still looking down.

“Hi,” says the fan.

The voice stuns Sebastian, he snaps his head up.

Chris Evans. It’s him.

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian looks behind him. There’re no other people except the photographer and another staff.

“I bought a photo op,” Chris winks as he takes out the ticket for a single photo op. “So here I am.”

Sebastian spreads his hands. He doesn’t have an inkling idea what Chris is trying to do, so he says, “What pose do you want?”

“Simple,” Chris pulls a chair over and says, “you just have to sit down while I pose to make a proposal.”

“You came here for this?” Sebastian sits down on the chair, both amused and confused; the soreness in his legs temporarily relieved. Posing for a proposal, being proposed to, and seeing other people proposing are must-haves for comic cons. He’s taken several similar pictures today. “Jesus, what the hell do you want?”

“I’ve been waiting in line for almost an hour,” Chris turns to look at the staff and the photographer. “Is this pose okay?”

“Yeah,” reply the staff and the photographer in chorus.

Chris shrugs at Sebastian as if telling him: _see, this works_.

“Whatever,” Sebastian has no idea when Chris has gotten here. For all he knows, Chris was still in Europe when they were last in touch. Chris has probably made his way here the moment he’s landed; travel worn. But the way he looks at Sebastian is composed, without the weariness of someone who’s just flow across two continents. “Do I have pose or anything?”

“You just have to hold out your hand.” Chris gestures. He asks the photographer, “Is this angle okay?”

“Yeah,” the photographer adjusts his camera and nods.

Sebastian urges Chris, “Hurry up, the con is closing.”

Sebastian assumes Chris is just going to pose, take a picture and all is done. So he sits there, stretches out his hand and waits for Chris to find a suitable angle.

Chris kneels on one knee looking very nervous. He inhales a deep breath and takes out a velvet box from his pocket; there’s an air ticket wrapped around it. Chris spreads out the ticket and puts it aside. The information on the ticket confirms Sebastian’s speculation.

Chris has gotten here right after he’s landed. The boarding time was in the early morning.

Seeing Chris holding the velvet box, Sebastian thinks, _you’re well prepared. You even brought a box_.

The photographer and the staff are already covering their mouths as if they’re about to squeal any time.

Sebastian casts them a perplexed look. There’ve been several similar photo ops today, he doesn’t understand what the fuss is about.

But the sight still makes him sad. He’s taken pictures of him proposing to people, or people proposing to him, but none of them are Chris. They’ve been together for seven years, and his index finger has been empty. Many people have asked them about it, but they never seemed to have given it much thought, preferring to skirt around the issue instead.

Sebastian recalls that interview he's done years ago when he’d said marriage wasn’t a priority for him, but as time went by, he finally understood that wasn’t the case; he just hadn’t met the right person he wanted to commit; make them his priority.

As long as it’s Chris Evans, even posing for a picture is sufficient to sweep Sebastian off his feet.

He still remembers the evening from years back, having beer on that balcony. Chris had taken the empty cans and they appeared again on the first day when they were officially together.

Chris had kept the pull tabs, strung them together with wire and made a wreath out of them. They were in Atlanta, Chris was still wearing his Captain America costume.

Sebastian took the wreath, measured it against his finger, gave it back to Chris and said, “Can’t wear it. Too small.”

Chris held the wreath of pull tabs in his palm, disappointed.

“Hey,” Sebastian held Chris’ hand and took back the wreath. “Come exchange this with an actual ring in future.”

And they hugged. Chris had just finished filming an action scene, the dust gathered on his costume smudged all over Sebastian’s costume. Chris’ hair, freed from the cowl, was poking at different angles. Sebastian wrapped his arms around Chris; the shield was still on the latter’s back, and he wanted to laugh at the smooth surface of the shield.

The scene looked as if a golden retriever had jumped on him.

Atlanta was too hot, so was the heat radiating from Chris. Sebastian’s costume was heavy, the air was so suffocating even his eyes were sweating, dripping drops on the straps on Chris’ costume.

“Seb?” Chris panicked and got a tissue to wipe away Sebastian’s tears. “Why are you crying?”

Sebastian remembered kicking Chris, explaining Atlanta’s sun was too much for his eyes. Chris had probably smiled. He loved smiling at Sebastian in the same way as Sebastian would curl up his lips when he heard Chris’ name.

Sebastian later put the wreath of pull tabs in a small container. There were two things in that container; the other one was a cigarette butt in a plastic bag. Written on the cigarette butt was _Bucky_. It was the one he’d smoked when he went to audition for _Captain America_.

And right now, at this very moment, Sebastian isn’t expecting Chris to pose for real. The latter nods at the photographer for him to get ready. He opens the box, a modest ring glimmers under the lights in the booth.

Emotions rush from the tip of Sebastian’s nose to his eyes. A fine layer of ice has gathered during this period of crisis.

He hears the ice cracking.

Chris slides the ring onto the index finger of Sebastian’s left hand, it fits this time. The ring stays steadfastly on the index finger, the size is just perfect.

Sebastian doesn’t know what expression should he wear now. He’s seen couples proposed, he’s posed for proposing and being proposed to, but those exaggerated expressions and gestures are suddenly inapplicable. The photographer gasps and presses the button when Chris puts the ring on Sebastian’s index finger.

He must have looked stupid. For the first time in his life, Sebastian is at a loss as to how he should pose for a picture. The ice is melting, the gentle seawater under the floating ice is kissing the sky.

“I’ve been thinking about how we should move on,” Chris quirks his head. “I think being in love and having a life together is different. We’ve been in love for a long time, I think you’d agree we change a new approach and continue the rest of our lives together. With me.”

Sebastian feels the atmosphere in the room is just as hot as Atlanta. He watches as Chris kisses the ring on his index finger, he feels like someone has pushed the pause button on him; even breathing is difficult.

“What if I don’t agree?” Sebastian opens his mouth, enunciating each word unhurriedly.

Chris wavers for a moment and spreads his hands awkwardly. “You have to keep holding on to that pull tab wreath until the day you’re willing to exchange it an actual ring with me.”

Sebastian suddenly thinks of Marina Abramović, the performance artist. At the exhibition in New York, she’d worn a long red dress and sat in a chair for seven hours. She could only sit for seven hours, that was her limit. One after another, people would sit down across the table from her and meet her gaze. Her eyes were composed; rolling waves hidden underneath that calmness. They had remained that way until Ulay appeared and a surge of emotion rippled across those composed eyes and she’d cried, tears spilling from that peaceful gaze.

Sebastian isn’t sure if this comparison is appropriate, but he does feel wetness trickling down his cheeks with sizzling heat, he couldn’t help but trembles.

Chris sighs, fishes out a tissue from his pocket and stands up to wipe away the tears on Sebastian’s face.

“Seb, why are you crying?” He hugs Sebastian, who’s still sitting on the chair, rocking him gently back and forth as though he’s holding a large size doll.

“Nothing,” Sebastian sniffles. Chris is wearing that familiar cologne, subtle yet invading the air around him forcefully. “I’m just…”

“The lights in the photo booth are too bright,” Chris arches his brows and adds, “I remember. The lights here are as bright as the sun in Atlanta.”

“Where’s yours?” Sebastian asks. Chris isn’t wearing any ring on his fingers.

“Waiting for you to put it on for me, of course.” Chris blinks, long lashes fluttering like soft breeze. “It’d too embarrassing if you turned down my proposal when I’m wearing it.” He shakes his head and repeats, “Too embarrassing.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. He takes Chris’ ring and puts it on for him. Two identical rings gleaming under the lights.

They hold their hands together; the solid texture of the rings especially evident. The photographer has already taken several pictures of them and has sent it all to print out. The pictures have come back while they’re talking.

“How much time do we have before the con closes?” Sebastian asks the staff.

“It’s still early,” replies the staff, then realizing the reply is too vague, asks: “How much time do you need?”

Sebastian turns to look at the stack of pictures in Chris’ hand.

Chris looks through them and finds the one in which he’s kneeling before Sebastian, putting on the ring for him. He pulls out a marker pen from his pants pocket; he has a box of those pens at home.

“Sign for me?” Chris gives the photograph and the pen to Sebastian.

“You didn’t buy the ticket for autographs,” pouts Sebastian, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Sign first. I’ll get that later.” Chris opens the pen cap for Sebastian and kisses his cheek. “Make it happen first; we do that all the time anyway.”

Sebastian thinks for a moment, his fingertips shaking a little; too tired or too nervous, he can’t even hold the pen properly. He takes a deep breath and writes on the blank blue background:

_Yes. I mean… I DO._

He slaps the photo lightly on Chris’ chest. Chris takes the pen and adds below the sentence:

_Me, too._

They hold hands; slightly cooled rings warmed by their body temperatures once again.

Floating ice melts. The ocean embraces the sky. They’ve once thought love is keeping no secrets from each other and now they understand: love is the most profound compulsion; a single soul inhabiting two bodies, and not having to say anything.

I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. I offer you all of me so that you would stay.

As matters stand, things are not as complicated.

What can I hold you with?

I hold you with myself.

 

~ FIN ~

 

Epilogue: When news of their engagement is released on the internet.

There’s an outburst on Twitter when the comic con staff posted a set of pictures of Chris proposing to Sebastian.

The pictures immediately set the internet on fire. Chris and Sebastian’s managers call their cell phones relentlessly, friends give their blessings via social media; the clamorous discussions and unanimous blessings on the internet fuel the prominence of the event. When everyone thinks it can’t get any more popular, Chris posts a tweet out a sudden. To be more precise, he retweets the previous set of pictures with a caption: _All right, all right, you’ve guessed it. It’s true_ .

Pandemonium.

The person involved has single-handedly thrust the popularity of the news to a new pinnacle.

When fans and the media are looking forward to Sebastian’s response, Chris posts another new tweet, this time a picture with a caption, but he deletes it a few seconds later. And then another tweet: _Sorry, wrong phone_. The deleted picture and caption appear on Sebastian’s Instagram instead, it’s a scenic picture of a beach and a sunshade, the location is an island outside the States.

 _These days belong to honeymoon_ , says Sebastian’s caption.

The sudden announcement of the “honeymoon” leaves their fans too astounded to react, and before they can reply, an account with no profile picture and no description comments under the picture: _and me_. And Sebastian’s reply is three kissy faces, an emoji he’s never used before.

And so the entire world knows who is behind that account.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the quotes in the story can be found below. Despite seeking Google’s assistance several times, I’m still unable to find the exact English translation of Orlin Vasiley’s quote. I’d be most grateful if someone could show me to the accurate quote. Also, how does one insert emojis on this website because they failed to load even when everything seems normal in the preview. I tried.
> 
> 1\. What can I hold you with? Por Jorge Luis Borges 
> 
> What can I hold you with?
> 
> I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs.
> 
> I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
> 
> I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honored in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather—just twenty-four—heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.
> 
> I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humor my life.
> 
> I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
> 
> I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow—the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
> 
> I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
> 
> I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
> 
> I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
> 
> 2\. “Love is the most profound compulsion of the human mind.” — Orlin Vasilev
> 
> 3\. “Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” — Aristotle


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